


And Straight On 'Til Morning

by TheIndianWinter



Category: Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: And Bilbo doesn't really know what he's doing here, And feels rather disinclined to be involved with pirates, And has a pet dragon, Especially one who calls himself the Defiler, Gandalf claims to be a benevolent meddling force, In which Thorin is STILL trying to reclaim a mountain, M/M, Slow Burn, Thorin thinks Bilbo is completely unremarkable, and he has far too much fun being vague, neverland au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIndianWinter/pseuds/TheIndianWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaded twenty something Bilbo Baggins lived a peaceful existence. That was, of course, until an odd looking fairy whisked him away past the second star to the right to Neverland.<br/>Now he’s immersed in the frightful business of helping the most disagreeable man he’s ever met commandeer his own ship and a mountain back from Azog the Defiler.<br/>Quite frankly, he’s inclined to avoid pirates, especially ones with pet fire breathing dragons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grey

**Author's Note:**

> This AU has been whirling about my head for some time now and is a lot of fun to write. I hoping to update this weekly, but since this is just the Prologue and I have the first chapter done already, that will be following on Sunday.  
> This is a Neverland AU, though I expanded on some aspects of it, and of course, added in a few bits from Middle Earth.  
> Hope you enjoy it, do let me know what you think!  
> And as always, feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](theindianwinter.tumblr.com/).

**And Straight On 'Til Morning**

_**“To live will be an awfully big adventure.”** _

* * *

**_GREY_ **

_“Take care, lest an adventure is now offered you, which, if accepted, will plunge you in deepest woe.”_

* * *

 

There were several points in the whole ordeal where Bilbo would question just how he had got himself into this mess. The answer was, of course, always the same.

A single word, or name, rather.

Gandalf.

The Grey Fairy of legend that had featured in so many of the stories his mother had told him. The mischievous spirit that carried children off on adventures past the second star to the right…

When he had been a child, Bilbo had wanted nothing more than to be whisked away into the sky, borne for the mysterious land that time did not mark.

As he had grown older and, as his mother used to remark bitterly, more and more like his father, his mother’s stories had become just that in his mind; stories.

For now, only just a man, he was too sensible for fanciful tales of a land where age marks not the faces of its creatures, a land where a great magic dwells. He had lost both his parents too young and thus led a jaded, though peaceful sort of existence in his old family home in the Welsh Marches. It wasn’t that he was unhappy per se, but he wasn't happy either.  

If he were to describe his life in one word, he guessed it would be lonely; he had his books and a painfully slow internet connection but he lived three miles from his nearest neighbours, the Gamgees. And he certainly did not converse regularly with any he may consider a friend.

His days passed routinely, he would wake, have a cup of tea whilst he turned on the computer, after he had breakfast he would go to the computer, refreshing his usually empty inbox - just in case - then he would potter about for the rest of the day, reading or tending to his mother’s rose bushes. On Thursdays he would drive his father’s old navy four-by-four down to the village of Little Bagshot to buy the week’s shopping. After dinner, on what was becoming a more frequent occurrence, he sometimes would fetch a bottle of wine from the cellars and drink a glass or two.

Perhaps, one day, he may go back to university, put himself through to get that History and Classics degree he had started before his mother, Belladonna, had fallen ill. As it was, his parents had left him with enough wealth that he could live quite comfortably for quite some time without ever needing to worry, or indeed to seek work.

All in all, by the age of twenty-two, he was quite settled in his idle life in Bag-End.

And that, of course, was when the fairy came.

It was a balmy evening in late June, the dark sky showing just the faintest tinge of pink and the crickets’ chirping made for a pleasant ambiance. Bilbo reclined on the small wooden bench in the shadow of the large oak tree, swigging white wine from the bottle - because he could - mind mulling over nothing in particular.

A particularly large firefly buzzed past his ear, its glow a peculiar silver, and he swatted at it half-heartedly, growling slightly when it flew closer to his face.

Thankfully, it moved away, though seemed to stop in mid-air. Bilbo spared it a brief glance before taking another hefty swig from his wine. Suddenly, with a loud bang like an exploding firework, a tall bearded man appeared before him, dressed in long grey robes.

Blinking slowly, forcing down his choking, Bilbo stared at the man for a moment before looking down at the bottle in his hand to check that _no_ he had not drank all that much.

“You are not imagining things, Bilbo Baggins,” the man said in a deep, booming sort of voice.

Bilbo just remained still, gaping at the man, his mind protesting practically everything about the situation.

“How do you know my name?” he demanded after a moment. “And who the hell are you?”

The man had the audacity to roll his eyes at Bilbo, looking at him as if he were some kind of imbecile.

“I am Gandalf,” he said imperiously, “And Gandalf means...me.”

Well wasn’t that just super helpful and specific? Bilbo glared up at the other man until the name registered somewhere deep in his mind, something that had not be stirred since childhood and he pointed his finger accusingly.

“You’re the fairy my mother told me about!”

Gandalf tilted his head in acknowledgement, his grey eyes twinkling amusedly.

“You’re the one who takes children on adventures to Neverland.”

“Not just children,” he corrected, “Any may go to the Neverland who are pure of spirit.”

Saying nothing more, Gandalf just stood before him, smiling serenely. Bilbo narrowed his eyes.

“And why are you here?”

“Well Bilbo Baggins, I was looking for someone to partake in an adventure.”

He froze, wine bottle halfway to his lips and stared at the strange man.

“Wha- _Me_?” he stuttered, “Why?”

“Because I made a promise to your mother,” Gandalf said, slightly exasperatedly, “Just before she died, to make sure you were living okay.”

Bilbo straightened his shoulders and protested, “Im fi-”

“You are not fine,” Gandalf cut in, nostrils flaring angrily. “And you are not living either. You exist up here alone with your books and your wine.”

The last was said with so much derision that Bilbo felt himself physically recoil slightly, into the wooden back of the bench. Noticing this, Gandalf seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly.

“What happened to the little boy I once met?” he asked, his deep voice softer and tinged with something quite like melancholy. “The one so eager for adventure?”

“He grew up,” Bilbo snapped. He was too old for fairy tales, but even as he said it, his mind conjured up an image, a memory he had long since dismissed as a dream, of a young boy meeting a man, a man who, at the time, seemed impossible, as tall as he was, and bolstered by an air of magic about him.

“Very well,” the grey fairy sighed sadly, “If that be the case.”

He turned and moved away, out the gate to the grassy knoll, pale in the night. With a flourish, he sprinkled some sort of glitter about himself, and it clung to a pair of invisible wings behind him, like dust dances upon a shaft of sunlight.

Bilbo felt something lurch inside of him at the thought of being left behind and he sprang up, crying out.

“Wait!”

Gandalf paused in his ascent, hovering about a foot off the ground and Bilbo ran over to him.

“You can bring me back yes?” he asked, a little breathlessly.

Gandalf replied, a little grim, “I can’t promise anything Bilbo. Except adventure.”

Bilbo’s mind was whirring. He could go, go on an adventure, as he had always wanted as a child. Or he could stay, in his home, in safety - Gandalf even warned him, in that vague way of his, that there would be some indiscernible amount of danger involved. Biting his lip, he found the thought of not returning did not scare him as much as it ought to. The thought of wasting away alone, however, did.

“Do hurry Mr Baggins, I can’t be here for much longer, I only have so much fairy dust, you know.”

His decision made, he reached out and placed his hand in Gandalf’s outstretched palm. His stomach lurched as he was pulled into the air. Gandalf grinned, pleased at him. Soaring through the air, Bilbo smiled, arms outstretched, breeze whistling over his fingertips as they sped over starlit paths.

It was only as they skimmed the cool wisps of a cloud, Bilbo’s toes curling at the sensation, that he realised something.

He’d forgotten shoes.

And he was still in his dressing-gown.

_****  
_

 


	2. Home: One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here begins the story proper! I'm actually so excited for this AU.  
> Thank you to everyone who read/bookmarked/kudos'd the prologue!  
> In this Thorin is human(-ish), basically he's not dwarf height, but man height.  
> I have a map of the Neverland that I will add at some point this week as a reference.  
> As always, you can hit me up as theindianwinter on Tumblr. I'm generally about to chat/gush/cry over acorns.  
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**_HOME_ **

_“Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough. You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it.”_

**_ONE_ **

* * *

The Fae of Neverland had long been noted for their benevolent nature but general policy of non-interference in the affairs of the various peoples that existed there. Mostly they seemed content - and Thorin would note bitterly, a little amused - to just sit back and watch as time rolled by before them. They, like everyone else in the Neverland, were not burdened by the looming prospect of death. Unless, of course, they became involved in some horribly violent situation.

(Thorin could quite proudly say he had, as of yet avoided such a fate; though, as his sister would say, glaring at him in that affectionate manner of hers, it was not through lack of trying.)

Therefore, he had been rather surprised when the Grey Fairy had come to him with an offer of help.  

Help to reclaim the lost Kingdom Under the Mountain no less.

It had been a fairly typical trip to the port city of Bree; Thorin often went to work in the smithies  for a season - his smithing skills were unparallelled north of the Bridge, learned from the Dwarfish forges of Belegost - and he would bring back money and wealth for his people in the Mountain Halls of Dolmed. With the seal of his once-master Telchar, the smith of legend, it was not difficult for him to make a healthy profit each time he went.

This day was like many others; Thorin spent it toiling in the forges, glad that his height now concealed him, here in this city mainly inhabited by Lost Men and that his shirt of loose cotton and simple breeches did not betray his status.

Azog the Defiler had put a pretty price on the head of any of Durin’s Folk, but the Prince Regent, well, he was another matter entirely.

The muggy summer heat was alleviated somewhat by the setting of the sun and Thorin, having worked through dinner, went to the nearby inn, the Prancing Pony for some supper before he would retire to his lodgings. As he tucked in to his modest meal of fish - battered cod, a Bree specialty - with roasted potatoes, a cloaked figure took the seat before him.

He eyed the other person slightly warily before turning back to his meal. The Prancing Pony was the largest inn in Bree and as such, it was always busy, so it was not unusual for one to share a table with a stranger. Out of the corner of his eye, he swept the vicinity and could see no empty seats and let himself relax slightly.

“Hello,” the figure, a man, greeted cheerfully. To talk to a stranger, however, was a little more unusual.

He lifted his head to glare at the other person. Grey eyes twinkled from inside the hood, the harsh, aged lines on the face cast in shadow by the folds of cloth. The man cast his hood away, suddenly appearing much younger than Thorin had expected, with long features and sleek, dark hair, reminiscent of...elves. The man seemed to catch the grimace that flickered across his face, if the amused spark in his eyes was anything to go by. Thorin thought the man had the manner of one who was privy to some knowledge he had yet to acquire and he felt his scowl deepen. If there was one thing he did not like, it was the feeling of not knowing.

“Oakenshield,” the man addressed him. Thorin froze at the use of his epithet, the one linked intrinsically with his title, with the legend that surrounded the Prince Regent of the Mountain Halls and he fought off the panic that welled in his chest at its use, and in so public a place. “Do not fear,” the man continued, as if using that name did not risk Thorin’s life, “I have placed a glimmer on the conversation, as on my face; we just appear as if we are speaking about the weather.”

“And what are we talking about?” Thorin asked, voice carefully blank.

“A chance to reclaim the Kingdom Under the Mountain.”

“Impossible,” he dismissed quickly. He had long since given up any hope of returning to his home. “The only way in is the Deathless and our attempt to take back the ship ended in the slaughter of a hundred-so of my people.”

“Do you know of how the caves of Erebor came to be?” the man questioned, though it was rhetorical, a mere introduction to an explanation.

Thorin knew the story though; his ancestor, Durin, aided a fairy, Alatar the Blue and in return was gifted a magical stone, the Arkenstone, which led he and his clan to a mystical land - the Neverland - and opened up halls in the Lonely Mountain, where they built a great kingdom.

“Alatar carved out the mountain and created the extraordinary lake your people favour so much.”

“That lake,” Thorin interrupted irritably, “Allows us to live, unbound by the Seven-Year Curse. It is more than some pretty pond.”

“I am well aware of that,” the man retorted in an imperious manner, “But what most seem to have forgotten is that Alatar created Erebor with his brother, Pallando. In fact, it seems all except my kin have forgotten the second Blue in our order.”

Thorin froze, eyes locked with those bright grey ones.

“You,” he managed, the word coming out accusing, “You are the Grey Fairy?”

The man bowed his head in acknowledgement.

“And what does the second Blue have to with reclaiming Erebor?”

“Well, two brothers are hardly likely to have just one key, are they?”

There was another way in.

“So, there is another stone, like the Arkenstone?”

“The Dýrmæstone,” Gandalf nodded.

“Do you know where it is?”

“It recently came into my possession,” the Fairy replied, an odd, mournful edge to his tone.

For the first time in a long time, Thorin allowed himself to smile, a small one, but a smile nonetheless.

“So we can use it to lead our way into the Mountain, claim it back by force.”

He could see it then, in his mind’s eye; his kingdom restored, his people home once more. Finally, his nephews would know more of their true home than the stories of those who had lived there, once upon a time.

“The stone is not the answer Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf snapped, “We need to be more careful than that.”

“We?” Thorin heard himself ask in bemusement, for the Fae did not trifle in the lives of the other races.

“For too long, Azog and his dragon have terrorised the seas around these parts. I cannot, in good conscience, allow it continue any longer.”

“Well how are we to do it?”

Gandalf explained to him then, how Pallando, gone beyond the Realm into the Everworld, had run out of magic, become mortal and so, when Gandalf found him, was unable to perform the charm to turn the stone into a beacon, to lead them to the secret door.

“But if I remember rightly, though we are going back millennia here, the brothers made a map, which will, in all likelihood, show the locations of the secret doors.”

The map, most probably, would be in the Fae stronghold, Taras-Morn, on the eastern coast of the Neverland and from there, they, with a small company, could scout out the door before strategising, planning their attack on Erebor, and on the Deathless.

“If we are to face Smaug, I fear I may not be able to survive without my skin, nor will Dwalin, and after Azanulbizar, we will need all the warriors we can find.”

“Which is why, we will need a man, a burglar of sorts, to enter the mountain and find your skins, bring them out, when we find the secret door.”

“I dislike the idea of someone touching my skin, you know their importance.”

Gandalf nodded; their true skins were a very sacred thing among Durin’s Folk - one may only physically touch their own, though a being of another race may touch them. As such, they were fiercely protected and before the capture of the Deathless, were not often worn outside of the Mountain.

“Perhaps one of our allies, a Dwarf-”

“I know the perfect man,” Gandalf cut across him. Thorin frowned at him. “I ask this one thing of you in return - it will help me fulfil a promise to an old friend.”

Thorin wanted to protest  -  the idea of a stranger touching his skin was the worst of all - but Gandalf was offering him he Dýrmæstone, offering him hope and his home, so he agreed, despite his misgivings. Obviously, this person was to be impressive, if it was one handpicked by the Grey Fairy himself.

Gandalf gave him a fortnight, two weeks to return home, assemble a company and then arrive back in Bree, ready to depart on the week-long journey to Taras-Morn by sunrise on the fifteenth day.

That night, he gathered together his few belongings in his pack, setting aside the money to pay off the rest of the week's lodgings and settled in his cot for a peaceful slumber.

In the morning, he awoke with the crowing of the cockerel and, forgoing breakfast, he set about sorting his affairs, paying off the smith whose outhouse he had been staying in and purchasing a fit young mare to carry him across the Bridge and provisions for the three-day journey.

The journey across the Bridge of Ered Luin was one Thorin found he rather enjoyed. It was a ninety mile long set of cliffs, about two miles wide, exposed and open, save for a few brave, hardy trees that were dotted along the well-worn track. The name came from the stone of the chalky cliffs, worn away by the sea, giving the impression of a spectacular natural viaduct, carved by the gods themselves. It was an easy journey, and, alone, Thorin made good time and the impressive peaks of the Blue Mountains loomed at him through the mist by the second day.

The Mountain Halls that had been gifted to Thorin and his people by their Dwarfish allies resided on the southern slopes of the highest peak, Mount Dolmed, part of the great city of Belegost. The name of the Mountains themselves came from the blueish hue to the dark grey rocks, thrown into contrast by the yellowed grasses that grew upon the mountainside.

They were simply stunning, in the harsh way of mountains, but they were not home.

As he grew closer, their shapes grew more distinct, their colours more vivid until, by dusk on the third day, Mount Dolmed loomed far above him. It became too dark to travel, so he stayed that night at the small tavern on the west side of the Bridge, the Inn of the Lonesome Pine, named for the solitary evergreen - imposing and alien in the salty air - that it was built beside. Often he would stay there on his way to or from Bree for a season and thus, had come to know the three innkeepers, Lost Men by the names of Appledore, Pickthorn and Heathertoes who had migrated across the Bridge and settled in Ered Luin, despite the area only really being populated by Dwarves, Fire-Wraiths and Durin’s Folk. That night it was Mat Heathertoes who manned the bar; a plain fellow, though the most amiable of the three, with the odd habit of walking around barefoot, even outdoors on the rocky terrain.

He greeted Thorin cheerfully, though a frown of confusion clouded his brow when he processed the man’s far too early return.

“What brings you back so soon, my Lord?”

Thorin managed to withhold the wince the usage of the title always threatened - he found such formalities quite unappealing, and it was to his chagrin that, some hundred and fifty or so years prior, upon their arrival in Ered Luin, that the Dwarf-King, Dáin II, called Ironfoot, had gifted Thorin, alongside the halls, the title of Lord of the Mountain Halls and declared him a kinsman, though no such blood ties existed between them.

Thorin liked Dáin well enough, and he found most of his discomfort around the King was caused by being at loss as to how he ever was to repay him.

The one time Thorin had dared to broach the subject, Dáin had brushed him off, as if the gift of the Dwarven Halls to Durin’s Folk was not as great a kindness as it was and asked him to please not question his generosity. Dís had agreed that Thorin should leave well enough alone - not look a gift-horse in the mouth or something of that ilk - but nevertheless acknowledged that Dáin should be recompensed for his incredible goodwill, but only as soon as they had means. His sister believed herself rather more sensible in such matters, and Thorin often found himself inclined to agree with her - indeed, in Thorin, Durin’s Folk had found a heroic figure, the kind of leader that belonged in legend (at least according to Balin, he was such, Thorin felt he was rather more a Prince who had led his people as well as he could through increasingly trying times) though it was in Dís that Thorin truly believed they had an exceptional leader. She bore her grief and the responsibilities of the day-to-day that kept his people fed and housed with far more grace than Thorin ever felt he did.

He kept his doubt rather to himself; Balin, being as loyal as he was, and his sister too, would never allow him to question himself thusly, and it was why he never feared a coup, despite the long months he was absent, with the pair he left as the Stewards in his wake. The Prince-Regent felt he served his people far better to go earn them coin and food in the forges of Bree than to remain and send others out to do the hard work.

“Is the work not good this season?” Mat prompted and Thorin realised he had fallen into a contemplative silence and not yet answered the man’s earlier question.

“Quite to the contrary,” Thorin said, and it was true, he had, in a short month, earned around half of what he had the entire season previous. “Just a sudden change of plans,” he added vaguely. Fortunately, Mat seemed to pick up on Thorin’s recalcitrance and did not press further, merely handing the man a key for a room and seating him in a quiet corner of the inn with the assurance that he would have a dinner soon.

Though simple, the plate of salted ham and potatoes creamed with cheese filled him far more than the modest rations of his previous few days and he devoured the hearty fare with vigour before working on his tankard of pale ale.

He slept well that night, on a simple hay mattress much like what he was accustomed to in Dolmed and he rose after daybreak, the sun already firmly in the sky above the easterly horizon. The remainder of the journey to the Mountain Halls took no more than a few hours and soon enough the great wooden gates that guarded the entrance to his halls loomed into view.

* * *

Although the Lady Dís’ title of Gatekeeper was a largely honorary one, especially in consideration of her duties as Steward, she did occasionally elect to spend an idle afternoon on duty on battlements. It was one such day, a month into what was shaping up to be an unpleasantly balmy summer that Dís was already starting to resent intensely, and she stood outside, Zegaru Ir-Rûzud, the blade forged for her by her late husband, strapped to her hip. Along the winding mountain path came a figure upon horseback, silhouetted by the harsh sunlight, though as they drew near she could pick out the familiar broad shoulders and dark hair of her elder brother. Frowning to herself, for he was not supposed to return for at least another two months, she called out to him when he was close enough,

“Brother! What brings you back so soon?”

He squinted up at her before his face broke out into a small smile.

“Do not fear sister, I bring good tidings!”

She made the signal for the gate to be opened, then headed down for the courtyard to meet Thorin. He had dismounted by the time Dís arrived and as soon as she reached him, pulled her into an embrace.

“So what of this news?” she asked when he had let her go.

Thorin gave a small shake to his head, “Not here, and Balin will definitely want to hear this.”

Her frown deepened at that, worried about what could possibly be unsafe for them to discuss out in the open - the atmosphere in the mountain was such that most things could be spoken without fear.

For the sake of her worried mind, she did not have to wait long to find out. Within thirty minutes, she, Thorin and Balin were sat around the small stone table in her brother’s chambers, their cool cups of sweet tea laying forgotten before them.

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s a foolish, reckless venture.”

Both Thorin and Balin - wise, old Balin, with whom she agreed on most things - were frowning at her, the latter even shaking his head lightly. So she was alone in this then. They could not see the high risk of failure, the waste of valuable money that could destabilise the life they had built for themselves in Ered Luin; they saw only the glory of a kingdom restored.

“Think sister,” Thorin beseeched her, “We could be _home_ again.”

“This is home.”

“No it is not!”

Sensing the impending argument between the short-tempered siblings, Balin held up a hand.

“If I may?” he did not wait for a response, just carried on, his tone serene as if he were not glaring at them each in turn. “The Grey Fairy has seen fit to become involved in this, nay, he suggested it. The Fae do not involve themselves in the affairs of the Neverland freely; I think it would be foolish for us not to accept his offer of help.”

“It will be dangerous,” she warned half-heartedly. As much as she disliked the idea, Dís could see no victorious way out of this, no way to dissuade them.

“That is a risk, we - no _I_ \- am willing to take.”

Dís stared at Balin in mild horror, “Balin, you cannot think of leaving on this quest?”

“I am quite sure about it,” Balin said, not unkindly.

“And what of Ered Luin?”

“That we leave in your capable hands,” Thorin replied softly, his warm hand resting upon hers that had clenched into a fist upon the table. “You are more than able of taking care of this place, you do it more than I already,” he added soothingly as she opened her mouth to argue.

Dís closed her mouth and swallowed, before nodding.

“Very well; if this is something you feel you must do.”

* * *

A company was assembled within four days. Thorin was to be accompanied by twelve others and Dís bit back a comment from her oft-suppressed superstitious side that warned of travelling in such a number.

First to volunteer was Dwalin, who frequently adopted the role of Thorin’s bodyguard and as his oldest friend, Dís felt his joining was really more on an inevitability than anything. Balin was of course going along, in what he claimed was an advisory role - Dís also held back from her comment on her brother’s bull-headedness. They were to be joined by their cousins Óin, who was a medic and Glóin, whose wealth was going rather a long way to finance the venture. Glóin’s own young son, Gimli, had attempted to volunteer, but was forcibly talked out of it by his father and had descended into a tremendous sulk that had done nothing to persuade his father of his claimed maturity. His bad mood had only grown worse, when to Dís’ own utter horror, her two sons, Fíli and Kíli, not much more than a mere ten years older than Gimli, had proudly proclaimed they would be following their uncle.

Dís had had a very bitter argument with both them and their uncle that had ended in her being told to stop mothering them so (how, when she was their _mother_?) and talked into relenting, that both her sons were now old enough to make their own decisions.

She had given them both runestones - for protection - and though they were in all likelihood useless, it gave her some peace of mind, as much as could be granted in the circumstances.

A scribe had been sourced, a young fellow, by the name of Ori, who seemed to falter between skittish and enthusiastic, followed by his older brother Nori, who claimed to have many useful skills and soon after, their brother Dori, who ran a tailors, but was, as her mother would have once said, built like a brick shithouse.

A cheerful, rotund half-Dwarrow man named Bombur, volunteered as chef and his brother and his cousin, Bofur and Bifur, both miners by trade, joined him. Bifur, it seemed, had once been a soldier, though had left the army after a brutal pirate attack had left him with a piece of axe embedded in his skull and the ability to only communicate through broken speech and a sign language of sorts.

Quite the motley crew, Dís thought to herself, bound to make for an interesting journey, especially with the addition of the Grey Fairy and whoever he was bringing from the Everworld.

Dís had only ever met someone from the Everworld once before. Her other brother, Frerin, had brought her there, along the Starlit Path, a girl called Wendy. She had been young at the time, and remembered very little, other than that Wendy had told very good stories.

She only hoped that she would meet this burglar of sorts before he returned to the Everworld. They all had to return, in the end, Frerin had once told her sadly.

She hoped her boys would return to her.

Standing on the gate-tower, she watched as the small caravan of travellers disappeared into a dip in the mountain pass.

Thorin halted his horse just before he would disappear from sight and turned back slightly, raising his arm in a gesture of farewell to his sister. Then he nudged his mare into moving once more and squinted at the few members of their party ahead of him in the early afternoon sun.

The eldest of his two nephews, Fíli, pulled in alongside him.

“It’s exciting, don’t you think?” he asked, a little breathlessly. Thorin felt much too old in his bones to be excited by such a thing, or anything much anymore, yet the prospect of returning to his home did uplift him from his weariness a little and he offered a small smile.

If Fíli was surprised at all by his uncle’s unusual display of good cheer, then he, unlike his younger brother would have, had the good sense not to mention it, and instead started to talk happily of the last time (and only time) Thorin had taken the pair to Bree. The slight curve to his lips remained as his nephew described the trip he and Kíli had taken through the marketplace with all the fondness and light exaggeration that came with nostalgia. Thorin did not remember the fishwife who had chased after them, screaming blue murder, being quite _that_ large. Nor indeed had her weapon of choice been a meat cleaver.

Thorin commented on none of this, only answering Fíli when the younger man posed him a question and listened as the topic switched from that trip to Bree to the last time, just before Thorin’s return, that the pair, along with wee Gimli, had descended upon the Dwarves in Belegost to see their poor ‘cousin’ Thorin.

Thorin had been thoroughly embarrassed when he learned the the Dáin had named his son for him, and it was great amusement that others noted how alike the young Dwarf was to his name sake - rather more stoic and reserved than his father.

Knowing how overbearing the three of them could be, Thorin felt a wave of sympathy for the younger Thorin, who did not at least have the authority of age and status to impose on the others (not that that ever worked all that often for Thorin).

They rested that night at the Inn of the Lonesome Pine; Mat Heathertoes was once again manning the bar and if he was at all surprised by the sudden return of Thorin, along with a large company of rowdy men and half-Dwarrow, well at least he did not acknowledge it. As they sat to dine at a long table that ran the length of the Inn’s eastern wall, Thorin sequestered himself in a corner with Balin.

“Such a large group of us, coming over the Bridge as we are, will no doubt draw attention,” Thorin said, a little beseechingly. They could not afford to be anything other than as inconspicuous as possible, anything else risked drawing eyes and ears to their mission, eyes and ears that could report back to Azog the Defiler.

“If we staggered ourselves, even then, so many coming from the South-West would have a similar effect,” Balin countered. “Unless, we had several circle round, enter by different gates?”

Thorin nodded, a sense of relief and a little pride flooding him as he realised his most trusted and wisest advisor had come to the same conclusion he had.

Over the remainder of their dinner, they came up with their plan of attack, as it were. Thorin, already well known to the men of the South-Western Gate, elected to enter through the South-Eastern Gate, accompanied by at least two of the others, lest his innate ability to get lost lead him astray - he slightly resented Balin’s suggestion that he couldn’t even make it across the straight line on the Bridge without getting lost - and the rest of the Company they split into twos and threes to enter into the other four gates that fell between West and East.

Out of earshot, the following day, they relayed their plan to the others as they broke for lunch, taking in a few of their considerations when ironing out the details - Bifur, for example, was all the more conspicuous for the axe in his head, so would need to go through the South Gate, that guarded only the path from the quiet shore and was so close to the Watchman’s Tavern that most who were posted there were in some form of drunken stupor. For the sanity of the others, Fíli and Kíli were to be separated - the elder with Balin, for whom he held a great respect, and the younger with Dwalin, who had a little more success at keeping the mischievous young boy in line than his uncle did on occasion.

Their progress across the Bridge was swift, though not as much as Thorin’s had been, and by sundown on the fourth day the salt in the air had subsided somewhat in favour of the cloying scent of the city that sprawled out below.

He slept a little ill that night, halting his restless tossing and turning to sit out by Dwalin during second watch. The air was still, undisturbed by their companionable silence; Dwalin keeping a watchful eye and he carefully sharpened the blade of one of his axes and Thorin gazing up at the starlit sky. A flash of silver light shot across the sky above Bree and, absentmindedly, he wondered if it might be Gandalf on his return from the Everworld, along with his mysterious burglar.

At the end of his watch, Dwalin woke Bofur, the next on duty, and hustled Thorin to his bedroll, adopting his mother-hen mode that he liked to pretend he did not possess. Thorin obliged, his quiet time beneath the stars having settled him, and he drifted into a light, dreamless slumber before the dawn roused them.

Without any trouble, they entered the city, meeting at the chosen point in the centre of the the West Quarter with little to no delay on anybody’s part.

The next few days passed in a blur of preparations as they gathered supplies and acquired another pack-horse, interspersed with rest in anticipation of the week-long journey ahead of them. In the market, at one point, Thorin could have sworn his eye caught grey robes and odd patchwork but as soon as his gaze snapped back to the spot, near the tailor’s, it was empty, and he brushed it off, the thought not crossing his mind again. On their last day in Bree, Thorin treated his men to a hearty meal at the Prancing Pony before ordering them all to bed early, for they were to rise before dawn.

Blearily they stumbled through the still-slumbering city, leading their mounts to the East Gate, where they halted, awaiting the arrival of Gandalf. They did not have to wait long, for not even a quarter of an hour later, the Grey Fairy rode into view upon a white steed followed by a small, unassuming man with a short chestnut mare of his own.

Thorin was not entirely sure what he had been expected of the man Gandalf said he would bring from the Everworld, but whatever he was, he would never have imagined someone as unremarkable as the one dismounting before him.

He did not look as if he would reach much past Thorin’s shoulder, with a softness about him that hinted at a comfortable life. At least he met Thorin’s eye as Gandalf urged him forward and the prince noted his were a colour he could not quite pin down, but they flashed gold in the light of the rising sun.

“Bilbo,” Gandalf said, gesturing the Thorin, “May I present the leader of our Company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

The man gave a bow of his head, a slight smile quirking his lips.

“Thorin, this is Bilbo Baggins, of the Everworld.”

Thorin took him in then, taking in his loose cream shirt and green waistcoat, obviously new, and the odd, dark blue trousers that looked much too tight to be either practical or comfortable. They were really the only odd thing about him.

He turned to Gandalf, his eyebrow raised in question, “So this is to be our burglar?” He cast another sly glance at Bilbo’s form, “He looks more like a grocer.”

There was an indignant splutter from the man, before he span wide-eyed to face Gandalf as Thorin’s words processed.

“What does he mean ‘burglar’?”

Glaring at the Grey Fairy, Thorin withheld the urge to groan loudly. Apparently it was too much to hope Gandalf had found someone competent to aid in their quest.


	3. Home: Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is technically only a day late in some places in the world! This is pretty much a transition chapter to get them on the road, so it's a little shorter than most will be.  
> I had a surprise visit from my dad on Sunday so yeah.  
> Also I've been sidetracked by yet another AU idea - a Regency AU - of which I already have around 11,000 words written, but I'm not publishing it until I finish the first of the four sections it has.  
> Thank you to everyone who read/kudos'd/bookmarked, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**_HOME_ **

_“Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough. You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it.”_

**_TWO_ **

* * *

Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure what he had imagined the Neverland to be like when he was a child, but whatever it was, his mind could never have conjured up the spectacular sights before him. A huge, rocky cliff face stretched out to his left, the pale rock had holes worn in it by the sea. As they descended from the path in the stars, a city loomed up at him through the pale, silver light of the moon. From above, he could see eight clear, wide roads that spread out like spokes on a wheel, though the buildings and streets in-between them were a haphazard mess that sprawled out from the tower of a church-like building in the very centre.

They landed on a quiet, dark street, made up of a strange mix of stone and wood buildings. Gandalf led him to a tiny house, it’s grey stone walls dark in the moonlight. It turned out to be a guesthouse of sorts, and the dozing young woman blinked at them blearily as they entered, her sleepiness preventing her from casting more than a cursory glance at Bilbo’s odd attire - his yellow t-shirt and dark blue jeans were most definitely out of place here - before she handed them the key for a twin room and took the coins Gandalf offered. Then, after mumbling some vague directions to them, she rested her head back on her arms and shut her eyes.

Bilbo himself felt rather too tired to comment on the abysmal customer service and followed Gandalf up to their room, collapsing on the bed as soon as he was through the door. It was scratchy and uncomfortable, made out of straw, but he settled soon after he had laid down his head let his eyes slip shut.

In the morning, Gandalf decided their first order of business would be to go and find Bilbo some clothes, boots especially, since he was barefoot.

Bilbo had been to a farmer’s market several times before. He had also been to a proper French village market one time, when they had gone there on holiday when he was ten. Neither had been anything like the market in Bree. Sights, smells and sounds pressed in on him on all sides, completely overpowering, and Bilbo found his neck beginning to hurt as he whipped it back and forth in a poor attempt to try and take in all that surrounded him. From a stall manned by a large, rosy faced man, Gandalf bought a pair of brown leather boots; they were sturdy and folded over just underneath his knee. Bilbo was fairly certain his feet were going to swelter in them in the summer heat, but with an amused smile, he realised they also kind of made him feel like a pirate.

Next, they entered a tailor’s shop, the shaded interior a welcome escape from the sun that burned the exposed cobbles of the market. Here, Gandalf insisted he replace his t-shirt, though he allowed Bilbo to remain in his jeans, on account of their practicality. The loose, billowing cream cotton shirt was comfortable on and he paired it with a racing green velvet waistcoat and a thick burgundy jacket. He was certain he was going to be too warm, but Gandalf ignored his protests and insisted he would be fine and would, in fact, probably come to regret it if he did not buy the coat. His patchwork dressing gown and t-shirt were relegated to the tan leather pack Gandalf seemed to pull from nowhere. Satisfied now, that Bilbo would not draw too much attention, the pair set about gathering supplies for whatever their journey was to be.

Gandalf was strangely not forthcoming about the details about wherever they were headed, or what indeed they were doing.

“I told you, my dear Bilbo, we are meeting a company of men at daybreak the day after the morrow, and we will accompany them on their adventure.”

“Yes, but why won’t you tell me who or where?” Bilbo asked exasperatedly.

Gandalf had the gall to retain his usual amused look, “Because you would be all the wiser if I named where we were headed?”

Bilbo huffed, “I should like to know all the same.”

“You have no need to worry - this will be good for you,” Gandalf replied breezily. Bilbo sincerely hoped he imagined the “And most amusing for me,” Gandalf muttered under his breath.

He made a sound of vague annoyance and returned to his meal of mutton and potatoes.

“Tomorrow, we shall find you a horse.”

Bilbo almost choked on his mead, “A horse?” he cried. “I’ve never ridden in my life!”

“Neither had your mother,” Gandalf said, as if this was perfectly sensible excuse, “If you’re anything like her, you’ll take to it like a fish to water.”

Swallowing thickly, Bilbo bit back his comment about his discomfort around horses and carried on with his meal quietly.

As for taking to it like a fish out of water, well, he certainly doubted it.

Bilbo was to be proved wrong, it seemed, for as they rode towards the East Gate of Bree, he found he had an oddly comfortable seat in the saddle; his horse was a fairly average chestnut mare that he had taken a shine to instantly - she was called Myrtle. Gandalf had a silvery-white steed called Shadowfax that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere the previous day. Bilbo decided not to question this, seeing it as one of the many wheres and wherefores of the Fae, though, in his mind at least, he did question the use of _shadow_ in the name of a white horse. Now, in the grey half-light of the approaching dawn, Shadowfax seemed but a spirit, his coat not stark in the darkness, but as if it had absorbed it and of course Gandalf would have some sort of magical fairy-horse.

Whoever it was that they were meeting, they were waiting for them already at the gate; most mounted upon their horses, but several were stood at the forefront of the group. One in particular stepped forward, a tall imposing figure with broad shoulders and a sharp nose. He had the very bearing of a leader, so Bilbo was rather unsurprised when he was introduced as such. What had surprised him, however, was immediately being dismissed as a ‘grocer’. And, oh, the small detail that _theft_ seemed to be expected of him.

The man, Thorin, had turned to glare at Gandalf and Bilbo, once he recovered from his shock, followed suit not a moment later.

“You said you had a man with the necessary skills,” he said, a threatening note to his voice that almost made Bilbo gulp nervously. Just what had Gandalf been saying about him? Evidently not the truth, if he was expected to have any skills related to burglary.

“You,” he snapped at Bilbo, “Do you even know how to use a weapon?”

Bilbo let his eyes flicker away from that piercing blue gaze to the hilt of a large sword, strapped to the leader’s back.

“Err…”

Thorin growled exasperatedly and then fixed his glower back on Gandalf.

“No.”

At that, it was Gandalf’s cue to frown, impressive grey brows knitting together imperiously.

“If you remember Master Oakenshield, this was my one condition.”

“He will be a burden!” Thorin cried in frustration, gesturing his hand vaguely as if Bilbo were not _right there_ , though he probably did not care that his displeasure was so evident.

“You do not know that,” Gandalf replied reasonably.

The two locked eyes, each trying to stare down the other in their battle of wills before Thorin made a resigned sound of annoyance.

“Fine, but I will not be responsible for his safety.”

He turned and stomped back to his horse. Bilbo made to clamber back up onto Myrtle’s back, but was approached by one of the men that had been standing. He was shorter, probably closer to Bilbo in height; with a thick auburn beard and kindly eyes.

He held out a thick wad of parchment, “Perhaps if you could be so kind as to look over this contract, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo held up his hand, “Bilbo, please.”

“Perhaps such a thing should wait until we’ve left Bree, Master Balin?” Gandalf suggested amusedly. If this Balin was at all shocked by Gandalf knowing his name, he showed no outward sign of it, merely nodded, slipping the parchment back into his robes.

“Later then.”

Soon enough, they were off, following the coastal path that wound along, a hundred yards from the edge of the steep cliffs. The view was spectacular, with rolling green hills to his left and steep, stark grey cliffs to his right. The fresh, salty smell danced along in the light breeze and Bilbo found himself inhaling deeply - it had been so long, much too long, since he had been to the seaside and he’d quite forgotten how much he enjoyed it.

His reverie was broken as one of the men pulled alongside him. He looked to be of a shorter, stockier build than some of the others, and had friendly dark eyes, though Bilbo supposed most would seem friendly compared to their stoic leader. His elaborate moustache twitched as he smiled at Bilbo.

“Bofur, at your service,” he greeted, offering out a calloused palm to Bilbo.

He shook the proffered hand firmly - his father had always pressed him on the importance of a strong handshake. “Bilbo, at yours.”

“So you’re our burglar, then?”

“So it would seem,” Bilbo grumbled, noting the amused look Bofur gave him. “Any idea what I’m supposed to be stealing?” he added after a moment.

“Well that would be skins o’ course,” Balin said, appearing suddenly at Bilbo’s other side as if that had been his cue.

Bilbo gulped. “Skins?”

Balin frowned at him then, “Did that fairy tell you nothing?”

“Pretty much,” Bilbo replied with a shrug. He didn’t think Balin should be at all surprised at that - in the few short days he had spent with the Fae, Bilbo had learned Gandalf liked to switch between ‘withholding’ and ‘woefully vague’, all with that same bloody twinkle in his eye.

“Do you at least know who we, Durin’s Folk, are?”

Bilbo stared back at him blankly.

“Durin’s Folk? Is that the name of your company?”

No then. If Balin had the same ill-temper as his brother, he was sure he would trot ahead and punch the Grey Fairy in his smug bearded face, but alas, he had the reputation for being far more reasonable of the two. Instead, he proceeded to regale their burglar with the tales of his

people.

“Our people Master Baggins, we hail from Erebor, a solitary peak to the north-east of this land, that we call the Lonely Mountain-”

He pretended to ignore the man’s muttered ‘Imaginative’ and continued on.

“A great many years ago - some one hundred and fifty at least - the flagship of our trading fleet - the _Deathless_ \- was commandeered by the nefarious pirate Azog the Defiler with the aid of his sea-dragon, Smaug the Terrible. The _Deathless_ contained the Heart of the Mountain - the sole key that grants one passage in and out - and Azog used it to storm Erebor and behead King Thrór. He banished our people from the Mountain and we were forced to seek refuge elsewhere. Our quest, Master Baggins, is, in short, to regain that homeland. Our homeland.”

The poor man looked a little pale, though Balin was not sure if it was simply a trick of the intense midday light.

“And what is it that I’m stealing? These skins?”

“Well,” began Balin, “Durin’s Folk are a race of-”

“Balin?” interrupted the smooth, deep voice of their leader, “I’d prefer it if you did not reveal _all_ of our people’s secrets before the human has even signed the contract.”

“Like I’m going anywhere,” Bilbo grumbled to himself, glaring at the back of Thorin’s head. For the next hour, he stewed, focusing all his anger and resentment on that head of dark hair. He was tired. He hadn’t had any breakfast and the hunger was making his head hurt a little. And, as beautiful as the scenery was, cliffs and endless sea started to get just a teensy bit repetitive after a while.

With great relief, he dismounted Myrtle when the call came for lunch and he settled himself upon a log but before he could tuck into his rations, he was approached once again by Balin. That man deserved awards for his persistence.

“Mr Baggins, before you eat, could you possibly look at this contract?”

The thick roll of parchment was handed to him and he unrolled it carefully. There was a lot of words - surely he could not be expected to read the entire thing before eating? His stomach rumbled a protest at the thought and he gave an embarrassed smile at Balin’s chuckle.

Quickly, he skimmed over the elegant calligraphy. He was to be a burglar and steal several of these ‘second skins’  - he was still no closer to figuring out exactly what they were, perhaps Durin’s Folk were some kind of shapeshifters - from inside the Mountain. The Mountain that currently held a vicious band of orc-pirates (and weren’t they those great ugly ogre-y type creatures?), the leader of whom was called ‘the _Defiler_ ’ and had a pet dragon. A _dragon_.

Bilbo felt positively queasy at the thought.

Then he got to the incredibly detailed part on funeral arrangements and his vision darkened at the edges.

Apparently there were many increasingly horrible ways for him to die.

But at least he would be laid to rest in a fine oak coffin.

“Incineration?” he heard himself read aloud warily, “ _Scalding_?”

“Aye,” Bofur piped up helpfully. “The fucker can breath both fire _and_ boiling water. Takes the skin right off of you.”

Bilbo gulped at the rather gruesome mental image that conjured up.

“ _Impalement_?”

“Azog’s favourite method of killing, that is. He’ll stick you on a spike from arse to chin and leave you there ‘till you die either from blood-loss or pain or one of his great gulls pecking your eyes out.”

He wasn’t quite sure if he was going to vomit of faint in that moment so to save himself the choice, he did both.

When he came to, he was lying on his back with a horrid taste in his mouth and two curious teenage faces peering down at him. Fíli and Kíli, his mind supplied, though he couldn’t for the life of him remember which of the brothers was which.

"Are you okay Mister Boggins?” the dark-haired one asked as his brother eased Bilbo into a sitting position.

“Quite alright,” he replied a little hoarsely.

“Are you sure?” the other persisted.

“Well I hadn't expected quite such a _detailed_ section on funeral arrangements,” Bilbo joked weakly. He really wanted something to drink now - his throat felt as if it was burning.

Thorin, who it appeared had been glaring at him the entire time, snapped, “You knew the risks.”

“I should rather think it should be clear by now that I was, in fact, in the dark as to the particulars,” was Bilbo’s haughty retort.

He harrumphed, still scowling, and turned to mutter something to Dwalin, the enormous scary one with tattoos and a _mohawk_ that made him look like something out of a seventies punk band or a biker gang.

“Oh don't mind uncle,” the blond one - Fíli, his mind now supplied helpfully - said and Bilbo frowned at he glanced back to study their leader. The man looked not a day over twenty-five and certainly couldn’t be older than thirty, then from him, he looked back to the two brothers before him who looked to be in their late teens.

“He's your _uncle_?”

Perhaps he was their young uncle, even though he had the grumpy bearing of an older sibling.

“Why are you so surprised?” Kíli asked.

“Well forgive me in saying,” Bilbo began, his cheeks flushing slightly, though he wasn’t entirely sure why, “But he doesn't quite look old enough.”

“Uncle?” Fíli cried incredulously, “He's one hundred and ninety seven!”

“What?” Bilbo spluttered. Gandalf hadn’t mentioned anything like _that_. He should have guessed really, that there would be immortals here. “How old are you two then?”

“I'm eighty two. Kíli's seventy seven,” the elder informed him, a curious spark in his eyes.

“Goodness me,” he murmured dazedly. It was quite difficult to fathom such ages, and especially these two, well _boys_ , being each almost four times his age.

“Bilbo my boy, aging works quite differently here in the Neverland,” came the ever-amused voice of Gandalf from his seat in the shade of a nearby oak.

“I'm beginning to see that,” he said dryly.

Kíli gave him a grin then, and it was almost mischievous. Actually, no, it was straight-up troublesome. “Why Mr Boggins how old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” he replied, not even bothering to correct the error that had been made on his name.

“You're a child!” the younger exclaimed, drawing the curious looks from several of the other members of the Company.

“That explains it.”

Bilbo did not like the gleam in Fíli’s eye then - having seen it in many of his younger cousins on the Took side of his family - and so, it was with a resigned sigh that he asked, “Explains what?”

“Your height,” he teased, “You still have a good few inches in you yet!”

“I am fully grown!” Bilbo protested and he swatted at Fíli’s arm, withholding a wince when he struck hard muscle. Folding his arms, he added peevishly, “It's the rest of you, you taller folk- you're deformed.”

This drew hearty laughter from a number of the Company, especially Bofur, who concurred loudly with Bilbo’s statement and Bilbo felt himself relax at their acceptance.

At least he was beginning to make friends amongst this strange group of travellers.

It was a shame the same could not be said of their leader - Thorin was glaring at him yet again.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes back briefly, allowing himself the flash of pride when Thorin turned away, and then continued to debate with Fíli over whether he was overly tall or Bilbo was overly small. He was quite miffed when the even taller Kíli joined in, overruling him and his defense of his perfectly ordinary height and he huffed.

“Well the best things always come in little packages.”

He glared fiercely back at the boys’ - because they were, both physically and mentally speaking, less mature than he, so he was going to call them whatever he wished - salacious smirks at his comment and then went off to his earlier seat to finally, _finally_ have his lunch.

He was still hungry after.

This was going to be a long trip.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The short comments come from various people in my family - we're all very short and often need to defend our height to tall-folk.


	4. Home: Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we finally see some progress on the journey in this chapter!  
> For reference, a bare-bones version of the map I drew of the Neverland is available [here](http://theindianwinter.tumblr.com/post/113106575927/map-of-the-neverland-for-and-straight-on-til/)  
> Anyone, thanks to everyone who's read this so far and I hope you guys enjoy this!

* * *

**_HOME_ **

_“Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough. You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it.”_

**_THREE_ **

* * *

The journey east of Bree was not a difficult one and the clear air sang with the salty tang of stone and sea, putting all in a mild mood. The Eastern Causeway snaked along the coast before turning inland, winding past the base of Amon Lanc where it met the southernmost tip of the Greenwood. The path lay just inside the treeline and Thorin repressed a shudder as they entered, the dark looming trees seeming to press in on all sides. Fortunately, he had never much cause to enter the forest, not beyond their initial passage along the Elven Way when his people had searched out a home. Even then, there had been the uneasy sense of being watched, one which was heightened now and he was glad when they passed out onto the plains. He let out a sigh of relief once the forest rested about a half an hour behind them and called a halt for lunch despite it being mid-afternoon already.

Bombur, accompanied by a smiling Bilbo, prepared the meal, both grousing the entire time at how long it had been since their last meal. Thorin sent the pair a glare, knowing full well they had snuck at least a mouthful of the lembas bread apiece whilst they had been in the Greenwood, and then he moved to stand beside Dwalin as his friend stared out across the Plains of Calenardhon, the hills and dry, yellowed grass stretching as far east as the eye could see. He found it oddly beautiful, in an barren sort of way.

“We’re making good time,” Dwalin commented and Thorin hummed in agreement. With any luck, they might even make it to Taras-Morn by sunset on the sixth day.

Gandalf had already spoken to the Rohirrim who guarded the plains and the banks of the River Running from their northerly home of the Vale of Edoras, some five days travel through the forest north of Taras Morn. Their small party was granted safe passage, free of an escort as would otherwise have been the case. As such, their progress for the rest of the day was steady and peaceful and the sun was just kissing the northern side of Amon Lanc as they stopped to make camp, hidden from the road by a grassy knoll.  

Several members of the Company were sent off into the scrubland on either side of the Causeway in search of firewood whilst Thorin stared at the map, trying to figure out whereabouts they were in Calenardhon. Only when Balin appeared beside him and tapped a spot on the map he realised he had somehow been searching on the wrong bank of the River Running and at the amused glance his friend cast him, he guessed Balin had known this. Thorin was immensely glad their journey so far had relied on following a path, for it meant he could actually lead, and not surrender his place at the head of the company to one who was not likely to lead them horribly astray.

The quiet that had settled upon those that remained was broken as Bilbo returned, arms filled with twigs that he dropped carelessly into the flames of Bifur’s small fire. The flames sputtered, sending up a dark, pungent smoke before petering out completely. Bifur let out a harsh curse in Khuzdul, wincing as he removed the offending branches from the fire pit so he could attempt to restart their fire.

“Do you know nothing of the wild?” Thorin asked harshly. He already knew the answer, because it was becoming apparent to him that this pampered child was indeed hopeless out of the books and armchair he often complained at having left behind. Bilbo looked a little chastised, but he still scowled at their leader before moving to help Bombur ration out ingredients for a stew.

“He does try,” Balin said, his tone neutral, neither pleading or criticising.

“My patience,” Thorin muttered back, earning him a glare from the Grey Fairy who sat over to his left, smoking a pipe and not even bothering to assist Bifur, despite the fire charms Thorin knew he could conjure, having seen him do it each time he chose to have a smoke (something that was occurring with increasing frequency - Thorin was sure he would have to restock his large pipeweed pouch in the markets of Taras-Morn).

Soon, his nephews and Bofur returned with more suitable kindling with which they could begin to cook their meal before darkness fell.

As they ate, Gandalf, who was quite content with just a small corner of lembas bread, regaled them of a tale of a brave king called Edward who had been betrayed by his brother George and had thusly ordered his execution though as it was his brother he allowed George to choose his poison, as it were. From across the fire, he caught the confused frown of Bilbo that stuck out among the interest looks of Bofur and Fíli who sat on either side of him, looks that changed to laughter as it was revealed that George chose to drown himself in a vat of his favourite wine.

When his tale was done, Gandalf sat back proudly as a loud discussion began as to whether Edward should have forgiven his brother or not and Dwalin, for whom a betrayal of his king was a worse crime than any other, asserted that Edward had been lenient in even allowing his brother to choose by what method he was put to death.

Bilbo piped up then, his voice cutting loud and clear through the chatter.

"Gandalf," he began, his tone light, but with an undercurrent of something cautious, suspicious almost, "How do you know of the Duke of Clarence?"

Everyone's attention snapped sharply to their burglar then. Gandalf had told a story of the Everworld?

"Your mother told me," the Fae answered in a measured tone, "And if I remember rightly it was your father who told her."

"Well I should expect so," Bilbo huffed. "He was a medieval historian after all."

"You are an historian, are you not?" Balin asked Bilbo. Thorin frowned, wondering when such a piece of information had come up and how one so young should be a scholar.

"I was training to be," he said, voice trailing off as he stared at the fire wistfully. What was it that had ended his apprenticeship? Or perhaps coming to the Neverland had interrupted? Though that would not explain the strange melancholy laying in those eyes that flashed gold in the firelight.

"So do you know more about this George?" Kíli questioned, oblivious to the sadness emanating from their youngest member, his face bright and curious at the prospect of a more detailed retelling.

"Of course. He was from a period marked by a series of Civil Wars, known as the Wars of the Roses.”

“Sounds poncy and ridiculous,” Dwalin snorted. Thorin could not help but agree - battles named after _flowers_? Somehow he doubted they could have been all that terrible.

“Well families arguing is always ridiculous,” Bilbo said sharply, “However more than thirty years of fighting over the Crown is hardly poncy.”

“Will you tell us the story of these flower wars?” Glóin said, ever one to relish in drama.

“Some - I cannot remember all the facts as it has been quite some time since I studied the period.”

“It’s not like we would know any different,” Kíli pressed, “Please, I do love to hear tales of battles.”

Thorin knew that was lie - for his nephew had always found history frightfully dull and mysteriously disappeared whenever the time came for his lesson. Although, he could admit that beyond the flight from Erebor, the story of Durin’s Folk and their peaceful, profitable life in the Lonely Mountain could be a little dry.

Interesting history always lay with disorder and turmoil.

“The year is 1377 and the king of fifty years - Edward the Third - has just died-”

“So short!” exclaimed Glóin mournfully.

Bilbo glared at the interruption.

“He was the sixth longest reigning monarch in my country.”

“Wow, your kings must get killed an awful lot. Are they dreadfully unpopular?” Oín sounded scandalised. Thorin also found himself questioning how one managed to get themselves deposed after so short a reign, and for it to be considered a long one, why the Everworld was indeed a strange place!

“Edward the Third died of old age, his _father_ however…”

“You mean to say your people die after they have lived for a certain amount of time?” Balin asked, the question the one that had risen to Thorin’s mind also.

“Yes,” Bilbo growled irritably, “Now do you want to hear the story or not?”

The history of Bilbo’s part of the Everworld - England, he called it - turned out to be just as chaotic and nonsensical as Thorin had thought. There was a Hundred Years’ War which actually lasted for a hundred and sixteen and the successor of the aforementioned Edward, the third of his name, had been deposed by his uncle, Henry. By the time it came for all to bed down, he had not even reached the flowers war and Thorin was rather disgruntled to find he had been listening, and rather intently at that.

However, his penchant for storytelling did not increase his usefulness in any capacity and the man still had absolutely no knowledge of how to survive in the world.

The following morning, Thorin rode once more at the front of their caravan, eyes fixed upon the track that wound through the seemingly endless hills before them.

"Why did Gandalf want us to bring him again?" Balin asked from behind him. Thorin didn't need to ask to know who he meant.

"Aye," Dwalin, who was riding aside his brother, added. "He seems pretty useless to me."

"He is useless," Thorin cut in harshly, "But our bringing him along was Gandalf's only condition in giving us the Dýrmæstone so I'm not going to argue."

Well not much at least. He had explained the situation to the brothers before, though it was a relief to know he was not the only one who continued to question the wizard’s judgement.

"Of all the people in the Everworld though," Dwalin mused, "And he picks such an unremarkable wee thing."

"Now brother," Balin chastised, "There may be more to Mr Baggins than meets the eye."

Thorin glanced back with a snort. "I highly doubt that."

The redhead shrugged, "Say what you like, but you can't deny, that for someone who claims never to have ridden before, he is adapting to a horse incredibly fast."

Humming in acknowledgment, Thorin thoughtfully turned his gaze to the small man, riding between Bofur and Fíli towards the back of the Company. He did have a good seat upon his horse, and a great affinity with the chestnut mare and the other travellers' steeds, especially for someone who claimed never to have touched a horse before he was dumped unceremoniously on the back of one.

Maybe it was one of these things that was in the blood.

Or maybe he was trying to find something about the young man that was of benefit to their quest. Because that irritating smile was not helpful and only confused him. He disliked the feeling of confusion, which only served to annoy him further.

“Perhaps, but that hardly serves a greater purpose than for his own comfort.”

As he said this, Thorin shifted uncomfortably in his seat upon Minty (Dwalin had teased him mercilessly for an hour when he learned what Thorin had named his horse, but at least he didn’t name his weapons. Well, out loud at least) for the four days spent upon his saddle was starting to take its toll and he would be glad for a rest upon reaching Taras-Morn.

By the time they made camp that evening the very top of the turret of the tower Orthanc could been seen above the crest of the hills that lay on the horizon and he allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

* * *

Zegaru Ir-Rûzud sliced through the air in a bright flash of silver, point coming to rest at the exposed throat that lay beneath a braided beard. Dís drew back as Dáin began to laugh so her blade would not catch the skin of his neck, a small satisfied smirk curving her own lips up at her defeat of the dwarf. When it came to swordplay, they were fairly evenly matched which made for quite the rivalry between them. However, his ability with an axe was far superior to hers, though she had him bested when it came to archery. In fact, her skill was only outmatched by that of her youngest son who could give the keen-eyed elves a run for their money.

“Looks like you have bettered me this time, cousin,” Dáin said, running a hand through his rust coloured hair. Both of them stood in their breeches and boots, sweating profusely after their intense match. Dís found her present exhaustion relaxing, their bout having taken her mind from its worrying for at least a short while. Her fellow leader had been understanding when she had requested they spar, not asking any questions of her, or holding back as another may have done.

They both moved to the side of the small training ground to dry off their bare torsos. Dís slipped back into her chemise, the material cool against her heated skin.

“Thank you,” she told him simply before setting to cleaning her sword. Dáin just grinned and nodded, following in her stead with his own blade, Id-Abram.

Only once they were in the receiving room of her personal Gatekeeper’s chambers, safe from any prying ears, did he speak on the matter.

“I hope you do not think any less of me for choosing not to support your brother’s venture as much as I could.”

“Indeed not,” Dís sighed, reaching out to pat his smaller but thicker hand. “In fact I think you are right to question it. It's a fool’s venture and I am all the more a fool for allowing him to go. And take my sons with him.”

“They will be fine,” Dáin said kindly, “They are hearty and hale and have the incredible ability to both find trouble and escape it unharmed.”

“That is more than true,” she conceded.

“They’ll be back before you know it, and you’ll miss the quiet then.”

She gave him a small, sad smile before standing and moving to the balcony, leaning on the railing to enjoy the rest of this time for herself as soon it would be back to the business of running a kingdom, though now she did not have hers son’s cheer to keep her buoyed.

From her balcony, she could see down to the Mountain Hall’s gates and the courtyard behind them where a caravan of both dwarves and Durin’s Folk alike were assembling, later bound for the markets of Belegost. A lone magpie fluttered past, black and white feathers stark against the bright summer sky and she gave it a small salute.

With a sigh, she turned to go back inside, ready to bid goodbye to Dáin and the small relief he could provide her from her worries; bringing them back to the Mountain Halls from where they floated with her closest kin, hopefully somewhere in Calenardhon now.

“One for sorrow.”

* * *

It was an exhausted Company that passed through the great dark gates of Taras-Morn, having pushed themselves especially hard that day in order to reach the city before sundown. Orthanc had made it seem tantalisingly close all day, looming ever tall and proud before the horizon. Now they were all too tired to appreciate the strange majesty of the dark city and their thoughts were only upon the beds that laid in wait for them, Gandalf having flown on ahead to ensure their preparation.

It was he who greeted them in the courtyard of the Black Castle itself though its master, they were assured, would welcome his guests the following morning. Thorin was a little anxious at how well-received they would be by the White Fairy as a few offhand comments from his kinsman indicated that he very much disapproved of their venture, or rather more Gandalf’s heavy involvement in it.

Nevertheless, the castle was nominally the vagabond fairy’s home as well as Saruman’s so he tried not to worry too much and at that moment, he was far too tired to anyway. Once he had been shown to his room, he did not bother to even disrobe beyond casting off his heavy leather boots before he collapsed onto the soft bed, drifting instantly into a deep but dreamless sleep.

In the morning when he awoke, it was to a sharp poke in his side that had him diving for his sword where it lay on the floor before he processed the sniggering figure of his eldest nephew.

He sat up, glaring at Fíli, then stretched his arms, feeling his back crack and noting how the decent sleep on something other than the hard ground had done wonders for his aching limbs.

“Breakfast is downstairs,” the blond informed him. “Gandalf says Saruman has been called away to Imladris so we don’t have to worry at making ourselves presentable.”

At this his nephew had glanced pointedly at his rumbled shirt and no doubt tangled hair before leaping to his feet and heading for the door.

“Come along Uncle,” he called from the threshold, “I’m hungry but I don’t want you to get lost.”

Thorin rose from the bed, muttering darkly about insubordination and damn younglings whilst he shoved his feet into his boots. Stomping along in his nephew’s wake, he noted with a little annoyance that the day outside was bright and pleasant though he would most likely be spending his in the vast library, searching out a lone map in its dusty shelves.

The rest of his men were already seated around the long table in a room brightened by the light that streamed in through the east facing windows, stuffing their faces with the breads and cold meats laid out on great silver platters and forgoing their manners, much to the horror of the ever-proper Dori.

Thorin slid into the seat that awaited him beside Dwalin, stealing the last piece of the wafer-thin ham from his plate and earning an elbow to his ribs for his troubles.

Fíli resumed the place he had taken for the previous five meals or so, at the side of Bilbo, saying something Thorin could not catch from the other side of the table that made the other man chuckle heartily.

After they had all eaten their fill, Thorin sent them off to do as they wished for the morning, intending to form a plan of attack for their search which would begin in the afternoon.

Accompanied by Balin and Dwalin, he followed Gandalf down a great marble corridor, glancing up at the intricately carved ceiling whenever he could to admire the great battle of old that was depicted there. He could not place which it was, and so contented himself just with marvelling in the craftsmanship of it.

Gandalf came to a halt at a huge set of double doors and he pushed them open to reveal the library.

“Here we are.”

When he had been a boy, Thorin had never had much time for books or the library, preferring instead to wreak havoc with Frerin and Dwalin as his accomplices in between lessons spent with dull tomes on the craft of kingship and histories long since passed.

His memories of the Royal Library in Erebor were now naught but vague recollections of great domed ceilings and the fierce green glare of Regin were you to even think about allowing your voice to rise above a whisper.

In the Mountain Halls, the library had fallen into disuse and his people had more need for housing than books so it was left as they had found it. Whenever he visited Dáin, Thorin always had more pressing matters to attend to in Belegost than to pay the library more heed than a slight glance if he passed it by.

As such, the library in the Black Castle was the first he had had chance to properly appreciate and the first he was to spend more than an hour in for some one hundred years.

And what a library it was.

The room was hewn from the same dark stone at the rest of the castle’s walls but the ceiling was made from glass and so the corridors that formed between the bookshelves were illuminated as opposed to being dank, as he remember of the underground counterpart in his old home. As far at the eye could see stretched what was doubtless miles upon miles of shelving, filled with a mix of various coloured leather covers, some pristine and some looking as if they would fall apart at the slightest provocation.

Tamping down a mournful sigh, Thorin regarded the library, beginning to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the search that lay before them.

According to the Grey Fairy, the Fae all had a habit of tucking important documents into rarely used books within the library as access was monitored and it was therefore safer than anywhere that was intended for such precious parchments, as those sorts of places would be the first ones where unsavoury sorts would look. Thorin had to admit it was a rather clever plan.

Yet, he was attempting to find one such document when he did not have any clue what sort of book the Blue Fairies would have put it in. At least he had never met them, but Gandalf it seemed was equally clueless.

“Well,” he muttered, “So our search begins.”

Gandalf grinned beside him, far too happy for one whose week would be spent trawling through the endless shelves searching for a lone map whose existence was quite possibly conjecture in the first place.

“So it begins.”

 


End file.
